


it ain't the meat (it's the motion)

by nebulia



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Established Relationship, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Spanking, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 19:08:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4799003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nebulia/pseuds/nebulia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Napoleon waves a hand. “Yes, of course, communists are all very boring,” he says. “The good of the state and so forth, I know how it goes. But sex does not have to be boring. Certainly we are not in the habit of having boring sex.” </p><p>“Gaby appears to be enjoying herself,” Illya says. </p><p>“Gaby could always be enjoying herself <i>more</i>,” Gaby says from his lap. “What are you thinking of, <i>Cowboy</i>?” </p><p>Napoleon is going to regret letting her use that nickname someday.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	it ain't the meat (it's the motion)

**Author's Note:**

> a new fandom! Plotless porn! 
> 
> Title from The Swallows' "It Ain't the Meat," which also has appropriate percussion for this fic, so it's worth a [listen.](https://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=7&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0CDIQtwIwBmoVChMIn7jZqPP2xwIViMuACh02sA_-&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DlpPeQyT36Tg&usg=AFQjCNFN32FzagahLLQXL9QfcUA4LvMOMg&sig2=o8ioN7E9M8nXQkuOlbaEtQ&bvm=bv.102537793,d.eXY)
> 
> Thanks to verity, faith_girl222, and audrey1nd for looking over this over even though it's super short and ridiculous. Thanks but no thanks to everyone on twitter who enabled me into doing this. I adore every single one of you even if you're all terrible. 
> 
> Everyone in this fic sort of briefly flirts with various D/s thoughts, but that isn't an explicitly negotiated aspect of their relationship or this particular scene.

“I don’t know what you’re so nervous about,” Gaby says crossly. “This was your idea in the first place.” 

“It was _not_ \--” Illya begins, and then stops, wisely. 

Gaby is settled across his lap, knees drawn up, her small pert ass in the air. Her dress is flipped up, and her underwear discarded some time ago. From his position next to them on the sofa, Napoleon can see the slickness of her cunt, almost hidden between her legs. Illya’s hand, huge even in proportion to the rest of him, rests on her bare ass, stretching from her hipbone to her ass crack without a problem. 

“Oh please,” Gaby says. “I know you meant it. You don’t say things you don’t mean. Grow a pair and hit me.” 

Napoleon bites his lip to restrain himself from laughing. 

“I did not say it thinking you would like it,” Illya says stiffly.

“Well, you agreed to it before now,” Gaby says. 

“Having second thoughts, Peril?” Napoleon drawls, leaning over to ghost his fingers across Gaby’s ass and between her thighs, making her shiver. 

Illya exhales through his nose. “No,” he says. 

“Because it seems like you’re afraid,” Napoleon says, and presses a kiss to the swell of Gaby’s ass. “Now, generally, I wouldn’t bring it up; fear _is_ somewhat inevitable in our profession, after all. But in the bedroom, well--”

“I _am_ afraid,” Illya says, a little angrily. “My--how do you say it--’track record’ with violence is not one that prioritizes control.” 

Napoleon kisses Gaby’s ass again, because the wiggle she did when he did it before was lovely. Then, impulsively, he kisses Illya’s hand as well, before pulling back. “You’re not angry now,” he says. “Nor are you in any danger. And, should worse come to worse, I daresay Gaby and I can restrain you.” It would be easy, he thinks, if Illya has a psychotic episode that truly renders him dangerous, to fight him into the bathroom, directly across the way from the sofa where they’re sitting, and barricade the door with the dresser. Once done, he has an airborne tranquilizer and a hose he could feed under the bathroom door to knock Illya out. 

Napoleon is certain the worst-case scenario will remain just that--a scenario. However, it never hurts to be prepared. 

“I can restrain you by myself,” Gaby says. “While drunk. Or did you forget already?”

Illya smacks her, lightly. The sound it makes is lightly satisfying, but could be infinitely better. “Hush, you.” 

“That’s the spirit,” Napoleon says. “Except you should cup your hand, just a little.” 

“And hit _harder_ ,” Gaby says. 

Illya hits her again, harder. “You're not in any position to tell me what to do,” he says. 

Gaby sucks in a breath and wiggles her hips back, just a little. “Yes,” she says. “Again.” 

Napoleon smiles; Illya rolls his eyes and lays down another smack, harder still. There’s a handprint, spread across her one of her ass cheeks. The size of it is obscene, Napoleon thinks. It’s hard to not be constantly reminded of their disparate sizes, working and sleeping together. But sometimes he still marvels at it. 

“You should really be spreading your blows evenly,” Napoleon says. “That’s much more enjoyable that focusing all your work on one spot.”

“If you don’t shut up, you’ll be next,” Illya says, and Gaby makes a squeak of delight.

“Oh, can we?” she says. 

Napoleon swallows, and then adjusts himself in his slacks. He’s usually on the other side of these sorts of negotiations. Then again, Illya and Gaby have sort of thrown ‘usual’ out the window.

“It’s not supposed to be a good time,” Illya grumbles, looking between them. 

“Neither is spying, and you like it well enough,” Gaby retorts. 

Illya hits her again, this time across her other cheek. Gaby flinches, and then sighs, dropping her face into her folded arms. 

“Good job, Peril,” Napoleon says. “Keep it up.” 

Illya shoots him a glare, and starts up a steady rhythm, turning Gaby’s ass and the tops of her thighs slowly pink. It takes maybe eight or ten swats for Gaby to start letting out little mewling whines that make Napoleon wish he’d managed to get out of his slacks before they’d started this, as he’s not exactly comfortable. She’s wetter than she was before, slick glistening on her inner thighs. Illya’s face has an expression of intent focus Napoleon has only seen when he’s staring at his chess board or fucking someone. He hits her--left side, right side, left side, right side, and for a brief moment Napoleon imagines being the one across his lap, vulnerable. His cock twitches. 

Gaby is gasping now, little wet sighs of pleasure-pain, and Napoleon thinks he should up the ante. 

“That’s excellent work,” he says, “But you’re not being very creative, are you?” 

“Creativity is overrated,” Illya says, punctuating the remark with a particularly hard slap that makes Gaby moan. 

Napoleon waves a hand. “Yes, of course, communists are all very boring,” he says. “The good of the state and so forth, I know how it goes. But sex does not have to be boring. Certainly we are not in the habit of having boring sex.” 

“Gaby appears to be enjoying herself,” Illya says. 

“Gaby could always be enjoying herself _more_ ,” Gaby says from his lap. “What are you thinking of, _Cowboy_?” 

Napoleon is going to regret letting her use that nickname someday. 

“Well,” he says, and sinks off the sofa, kneeling in front of Gaby and Illya. “He only hits you on on one side or the other. Here--” upper left thigh--”And here.” Upper right thigh. 

Napoleon is not a small man, but his hands are smaller than Illya’s, and shaped differently. His palms are broader, comparatively, his fingers shorter. He doesn’t hit any harder, but makes sure that his hand cracks satisfyingly against Gaby’s hot skin. She whines, arching back into his hits. 

“But he doesn’t seem to think about the middle,” he says, and hits right in the center of the fullest part of her ass, the top of his palm landing against the crack. 

“Oh, _fuck,_ ,” Gaby says. 

Napoleon smiles. “Or if I move lower--” This time he hits her across the thighs, a little lighter, and Gaby _shrieks_ , thrashing in Illya’s lap. Napoleon knows exactly where he hit, just enough that his hand grazed the outer folds of her cunt. There’s the smallest smear of wetness on his palm; Napoleon licks it up, like a cat, eyes darting from Illya’s face to Gaby’s. Then he grins, smug. 

Gaby groans and drops her head into her arms again. "God damn you, Solo," she says. 

"Too late for that, probably," Illya says, but his cheeks are flushed pink. 

Napoleon hits Gaby in the same spot, twice more, his hand stinging against her thighs. She's even wetter by the time he's done, shifting restlessly, trying to press her thighs even more tightly together for more pressure. 

Napoleon takes mercy on her instead, moving to slide his other hand under Gaby and between her legs. He parts her folds with two fingers and just leaves them there, not moving, but giving her something to grind against. It's not the most aesthetically pleasing position, but then they're not on show for anyone and no one involved seems to mind. He can feel Illya's erection twitch, and smirks up at him. 

"Well?" he says to Illya. "Is your hand tired already?"

"Shut your mouth," Illya says, and starts hitting her again. With Napoleon's hand insinuated between them, his body pressed close to theirs, he can feel the way each smack makes Gaby jerk. With his hand pressed between her legs he can feel her rut into his fingers after each slap, soaking them with her slick. His vantage point isn't as good, but Napoleon's always been invested in the tactile, and getting to touch, to feel, is as arousing as watching, if not more. 

Gaby's cunt flutters under his fingers. "God," she says, "God, _Gott,_ I'm close--"

Illya hits her three times, breaking his steady rhythm, the sharpest, hardest hits yet, and Gaby's voice cracks as she comes between them, trembling through a long orgasm until she slumps against Illya, panting. 

Illya looks almost shocked, like he wasn't expecting Gaby to come that hard, or maybe at how aroused he is. 

"You all right, Peril?" Napoleon lifts an eyebrow at him. 

"You can be next, if you like," Illya says, his rough voice belying him. He gestures with one of his huge paws, the palm pink from the work he's already done, and Napoleon has to fight the urge to fling himself into his lap. 

Instead he smoothes back Gaby's hair, and she turns her face to him. There are tears in her eyes, and she's as flushed as if she's been slapped across the face and not the ass. "You took that beautifully, Gaby," he says, and she pushes herself up with an elbow and reaches for him, kissing him deep and slow and unhurried in the way she only does after she's come. 

When she pulls away, she smiles, a hint of mischief in her face. "Thank you," she says, only half teasing. "Do we reward Illya for doing a good job?"

"He is a fast learner," Napoleon agrees, and isn't surprised when Illya fists a hand in his hair and yanks. He doesn't manage to bite back his moan fast enough, and Illya bares his teeth and yanks again. 

"Let me--move, you oaf," Gaby says, possibly to both of them, and slides off Illya's lap to sit cross-legged next to Napoleon. There's still a fine tremble running through her legs. "Carry on," she says, waving a hand, and Illya drags Napoleon by the hair face-first into his lap. 

Illya forces a thumb into the corner of Napoleon's mouth, holding him open, and Napoleon sucks messily around the head of Illya's cock, through the raspy wool fabric of Illya’s slacks. Their texture is almost abrasive against the roof of his mouth and tongue, and they taste faintly of starch and, terribly, Woolite (has he taught Illya _nothing_?) and nothing like Illya's skin. There's still a hand in his hair and a thumb holding his mouth open, but there are also hands unbuttoning Illya's pants in his periphery, and then Illya yanks him off while Gaby unzips the fly and pulls Illya's cock out of his briefs. 

"Honestly," Napoleon says around Illya's thumb, "You don't need to push me around." It comes out undignified but understandable, _oo don nee to p'sh me aroun_ , and both Illya and Gaby snort, almost in unison. 

"Everyone knows that," Gaby says, patting his shoulder.

"And _I_ like pushing you around, Cowboy," Illya says, and well, that's a point. Napoleon shrugs and Illya pulls him back down, fucking his face onto his cock in long, smooth strokes that have him choking, and also wanting to rut up against Illya's leg like a dog. 

"You take it beautifully, too, Cowboy," Gaby says sincerely, and Napoleon can't stop the whine that builds in his throat. Gaby presses a kiss to his throat, and then sucks like they're in the back of a car at the drive-in, and Napoleon's hips jerk despite themselves. Her small hand presses against his cock through his trousers, and she grazes her teeth along his jugular before biting down. 

Napoleon comes, surprising himself, swallowing uncontrollably around Illya's cock. Illya groans, pressing in almost too deep but not quite. 

"You're a whore," Gaby says, too fond for it to have any heat. 

Illya lets Napoleon off his cock long enough for Napoleon to smile a little drunkenly at her. 

"I know we said we should do you next," Gaby tells him. "But what do you think about spanking Illya? I bet you could hold him down and I would--" 

Illya gasps above them, and comes as suddenly as Napoleon had a few moments before, while Napoleon is unprepared and breathing in; some of his spunk comes out Napoleon's nose. 

It's unpleasant, but it honestly does not even hit Napoleon's top twenty list of unpleasant sex events, so he mostly shrugs it off, coughing and sniffling a bit but sitting back on his heels, pretending there isn't semen smeared across his face or spreading wet inside his wool slacks, and feeling pretty smug about the state of the world, and especially the way Illya's ears are red to the very tips. 

"I think he'd like that very much," Napoleon tells Gaby unnecessarily, his voice raw in his throat.

Illya looks down at them, and then grabs them each by an arm and pulls them up on the sofa with him, where Napoleon allows himself to slump against him like a rag doll. His hand rests on Illya's stomach, naturally, and then Gaby's lacing her fingers with his, her position nearly mirroring his. From his vantage point at about Illya's ribcage, still breathing hard, Napoleon can look up and see Illya's face flush darker still. 

"What do you think about that, Mr. Peril?" Gaby says. She only manages to put off a yawn until just after she finishes the sentence. 

Illya tips his head back against the sofa. "If you do not kill me first," he says, and if Napoleon didn't know him so well, he would say Illya sounds long-suffering. 

But he knows better, and so does Gaby. She squeezes his fingers, and Napoleon gives her a wink.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos always appreciated!


End file.
